


to dare is to do

by Bellelaide



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 18:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellelaide/pseuds/Bellelaide
Summary: Eric was sure that if England won the World Cup, he and Dele would get together. It was like they were waiting for an excuse, waiting for something big enough to eclipse the weight of what it meant if they finally had sex. When England lost, Eric was devastated, but not just because of the football.It wasn’t until they put City out of the Champion’s League that Eric locked eyes with Dele across the changing room, felt that old tingle in his stomach. Thought - maybe this time?





	to dare is to do

**Author's Note:**

> all the good dirty talk in this either belongs to or was inspired by my friend laila. this is entirely for you xxx
> 
> ps. sorry if there are any horrible errors in this. my eyes are blurring

It’d been in the post since Russia. 

Eric was sure that if England won the World Cup, he and Dele would get together, girlfriends and family be damned. Every game that they progressed through, every time England won instead of losing, things heat up between him and Dele, their flirting taking on new levels, the energy between them undeniable. It was like they were waiting for an excuse, waiting for something big enough to eclipse the weight of what it meant if they finally had sex. When England lost, Eric was devastated, but not just because of the football. 

The Premier League had been brutal and draining, marked by losses and injuries and cold winter weather. There was nothing sexy about the season, nothing at all - Eric kissed goodbye to any hope he had that Dele would just wander up to him one night, drunk off a big win and thrumming with unspent energy and say “Pants down, Diet.” It didn’t really matter in the end because things were different away from Russia anyway. It wasn’t necessarily what either of them wanted anymore. 

Eric let himself forget about the follies of last summer, his thoughts consumed instead by transfer rumors and appendix infections and that stupid fucking early celebration against Arsenal. It wasn’t until they put City out of the Champion’s League that Eric locked eyes with Dele across the changing room, felt that old tingle in his stomach. Thought - maybe this time? Maybe this time. 

Ajax were good though, too good, spectacularly good, real underdogs on sizzling form. They defeated Spurs in the first leg of the semi finals. Eric didn’t expect they’d make it in the end, but he couldn’t say he was bitter about it. The lads from Amsterdam deserved this. 

They boarded the plane for the second leg with manageable expectations. Poch kept telling them they could do it, that it was theirs if they wanted it, that the one goal Ajax had already was so easy to overturn they should be planning their trip to Madrid already. Eric sat down near the back of the plane and turned on a podcast, zoning out of the Uno game already taking place to his left. He was drifting off to sleep when someone plonked themselves down heavily beside him, pulling his earbud out unceremoniously. 

Eric cracked open one eye and looked at Dele warily. He was grinning as he turned Eric’s earphone over in his good hand, his feet tucked up underneath him. 

“What d’you reckon then?” Dele asked quietly. “We going to the final?”

Eric shrugged. “According to him we are.” 

They both looked down the aisle at Poch, who was gesticulating wildly and seemed to be describing the weight of the Champions League trophy to Sonny and Kane. 

“According to you, though. We finally gonna get some silverwear?” 

“Depends if you can get into space, doesn’t it?” 

“Piss off,” Dele laughed softly, nudging Eric with his shoulder. “Least I’m going to be out there.” 

“Uh huh. How long till we land?” 

Dele looked at his wrist watch. “Bout thirty minutes now. You ever been down the red light district?” 

Eric cocked a brow at him. “It’s not really my thing.” 

“Yeah, well. Single now, ain’t I. If we do win, probably gonna want to burn off some energy.” His eyes were twinkling mischievously, and Eric wondered if he was hinting at what he thought he was hinting at. 

“Hotel probably has a gym you could use,” Eric said, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Lift some weights.” 

“Oh, yeah? You could show me,” Dele said, his eyes following the movement of Eric’s tongue. “I know you’re well accustomed to hotel gym life.” 

“Mate -” 

“Catch,” Dele said suddenly, tossing Eric’s earpod into the air and moving out of the seat, unfolding himself into his six foot form like a piece of origami. 

Dele went to join the game of Uno and Eric returned to his podcast, though what it said for the next thirty minutes of it, he didn’t know. 

\-- 

They fucking won. 

Lucas in the last five seconds, FIVE SECONDS, shooting it in like he’d never have attempted to make a shot like that in regular time but there was nothing left to lose so why not, and it went in, it hit the net and the crowd erupted and Eric vaulted out of his seat, the other subs following him, sprinting onto the pitch and jumping on Poch and Ben, rattling them and shouting WE FUCKING DID IT! WE DID IT! Smiling bigger than he had for ages, his hands shaking with adrenalin, the away fans absolutely tearing the roof off the place. They were used to not having a home, used to celebrating wherever the team dragged them, and Eric loved them for it. 

They were all crying, Poch was in tears on his knees, couldn’t quite believe this, none of them could. Eric wanted to get on one knee and propose to Lucas then and there, because what the fuck, that was special, what he’d done tonight was... they’d have to build statues honoring him. He deserved to have the new stadium named after him, fuck. And it was going to be Liverpool and Spurs and it was going to be so, so sweet. Victory felt so fucking sweet. 

They were leaping around in the changing rooms like mad men. Someone produced a whole cooler of Heineken and anyone who drank was on the beer, fully fucking deserving of it tonight. The room was sweaty and smelly but so full of love, of pride, the sound of the fans ringing in their ears. Eric hadn’t felt energy like this in so long. He was being rough and handsy, and he knew he needed to stop but he couldn’t control himself, felt like he wanted to just squeeze something till it exploded or run around the pitch a thousand times barefoot or go out and hijack a canal boat and race it up and down Amsterdam in his underwear. 

They couldn’t go out in Amsterdam to celebrate, they weren’t out of their fucking minds, but they sang and drank the whole way back to the hotel and then convened in Lucas’s room to celebrate some more, jumping on the bed and slapping the ceiling and posting stupid videos on Instagram that no one would have the heart to tell them off for because this was a momentous occasion. 

One by one the team filtered out, off to FaceTime partners or get some sleep or do whatever it was they did when they were trying to process the fact that they’d just been part of history. Eric was busy messing about with Tripps when he spotted Dele staring at him, eyes dark and glittering with possibility, his limbs tense the way they were when he was on edge, on the precipice of something like a penalty or an important interview or staring at his best friend with one hand on the doorknob. 

Eric didn’t even say goodbye to Kieran, he just rose from where he was perched on the end of the bed and walked through the remaining bodies to Dele’s side, one hand going into the pocket of his joggers, the other coming to rub at his chin as if he was deep in thought. 

“I was wondering, Dele - do you have a couple minutes? We should discuss your game tonight. Couple pointers.” 

“I can give you ten minutes, yeah, but I’ve got to get down to the gym before they close it so keep it brief please, Dier.” 

“After you,” Eric said, motioning to the door. 

They walked down the corridor in silence, their shoulders bumping once, twice. Dele produced a key card and pushed open the door to his bedroom, already a fucking pigsty after one night. Eric turned to Dele and looked him up and down like he was deciding on which Christmas turkey to select. Dele smirked at him and wandered into the room, walking backwards as he removed his shirt, falling when his knees hit the mattress. He pulled himself up the bed a bit and raised his eyebrows, waiting. 

“First of all,” Eric said, pulling his own shirt off by the back of the neck and dropping it on the floor, “this room is a tip.”

“Comments about my game, you said.” 

“We’re getting there,” Eric said firmly, kicking off his trainers and then climbing onto the bed on his knees. “Second of all, what the fuck was that in the first half? Were you even out there?” Eric stopped at Dele’s waist, splaying one hand across his ribs lightly enough to tickle. 

“I mean, I was out there. Can’t say the same about you.” 

“You’d have known if I were on the pitch,” Eric said, making his fingers walk up Dele’s chest like a spider. “Hard not to know where I am at all times,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over Dele’s collarbones. “Like to make myself seen.” He wrapped his fingers around Dele’s neck softly, carefully, a ghost of a touch. “Like to be noticed.” Eric applied the slightest bit of pressure and the smile fell off Dele’s face, his eyes widening a bit. “Like to be... everywhere.” Eric moved the hand away from Dele’s neck and pressed his fingers to Dele’s lips, testing, asking. That would’ve been the moment to bite them or shove Eric’s hand away or tell him to fuck off, stop goofing around, but instead Dele kissed them carefully, his eyes on Eric’s. 

Eric lay himself down alongside Dele, his hand to himself again. They both turned on their sides so that they were facing each other, shirtless and tipsy and full of adrenalin. 

“Third of all. Good of you to set up an assist for Lucas, but why couldn’t you score your own goal?” After he spoke Eric leaned in and kissed Dele’s lips. It was dry and closed mouthed, but Dele’s eyes still fluttered closed with it. Eric pulled back, thrilled at the shade of pink Dele was turning. 

“You couldn’t even score that penalty before Christmas,” Dele answered, his eyes on Eric’s mouth. He leaned in this time and kissed Eric’s lips, once, twice, three times. “Your defending’s been quite shady too.” 

“This is about you, Dele, stay focussed. Fourth - well done for not biting when the big nasty Ajax boys provoked you, but us in the crowds expect a show, alright? Do something a bit more fiery next time.” Eric moved forward and placed his hand on Dele’s waist, skin hot to the touch. He rolled Dele over a bit so that he was on his back and then leaned down and kissed him again, this time open mouthed, agonisingly fucking slow about it, kissing him like thick honey moving slowly out of a bottle. When he pulled back Dele was properly flushed, his eyes so dark they looked black. 

“We did it, Eric,” Dele said earnestly, his hand wrapping around the back of Eric’s neck. “We got into the final of something.” They kissed a bit more, this time with tongue, hot and wet, the sounds of it filling the room. 

“Pointers aside, you did good once you got your shit together,” Eric said, the words coming out his mouth and bumping against Dele’s lips before they could stretch out into proper sentences, Eric’s speech rushed as he aimed to get back to kissing. 

“Once again, at least I was there,” Dele said breathily as Eric laid a kiss on the corner of his jaw, his tongue moving against the soft skin of Dele’s earlobe, down his neck. 

“What good’s being there if you can’t score?” Eric said against Dele’s throat, his teeth grazing a bit. 

“You couldn’t have scored on an Amsterdam street corner, let alone the pitch,” Dele retorted as he leaned forward and bit down on the ball of Eric’s shoulder. 

Eric swung one leg between Dele’s, lowering his hip down onto Dele’s dick and letting out a pathetic half groan. “Yeah? I’m not the one who’s hard right now over a piss take snog,” he mumbled, sucking hard on Dele’s left nipple. 

“Except you are though,” Dele breathed, his own hip rolling up against Eric’s painfully hard cock. “Hard as fuck. That’s so embarrassing.” 

“Hard for Spurs being in a Champion’s League final, nothing more,” Eric said as he sucked at Dele’s collarbone. 

“Fair enough, probably never gonna see another one in your life once you’re sold to Kettering Town. Only so long you can keep blaming poor form on injury, Dier, everyone’ll soon notice you’re going downhill.” Dele punctuated his insults with a long wet lick up the length of Eric’s neck, leaning up to push their mouths together for another kiss. 

They were lying there with their legs intertwined, kissing lazily and rubbing off against each other even lazier, the bed squeaking rhythmically under them every time Eric rolled his hips down onto Dele’s. It couldn’t have been slower if they were absentmindedly humping pillows, and still Eric felt heat pooling in his stomach at the tiny whimpers Dele was leaving in his mouth, the way his nails were scratching against Eric’s shoulder blades, the way his stomach felt when he muscles in it contracted as he rutted up against Eric. 

“Not like this,” Eric had the mind to say, putting a hand down and stilling Dele’s hips. “Wanna - wanna give us a blowie?” 

“You won’t give me one back,” Dele scowled. “I want one first.” 

“Why don’t we sixty nine,” Eric heard himself saying, blushing at the words and who was hearing them. “Then it’s mutually assured blow jobs.” 

“Alright,” Dele said, already sitting up and shucking off his trousers. “If you’re shit I won’t speak to you again.” 

“What if you’re shit?” Eric countered as he pulled his own off, wrapping a hand loosely around his dick as it sprang free. “You might be shit.” 

“I’m amazing at it,” Dele said, lying on the bed on his side, his own dick hard and leaking and curving up wonderfully. Eric didn’t want to think about how Dele knew he was good at giving head so he jumped back onto the bed, lying in the opposite direction to Dele and shuffling forward, quite unable to believe they were doing this. 

Eric reached out and picked up Dele’s cock, hard and heavy and lovely in his hand, clean and beautiful and - his mind short circuited when he felt a hot wet heat envelope his dick. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he groaned, hips puttering forward as he sought more - more movement, more mouth, more tongue, more suck - and Dele whined around it impatiently, his hips wriggling as he willed Eric to return the favour. 

Eric sank down quickly, sucking hard, savouring the musky taste of it, unsure if he’d ever get to experience it again, committing the veins and shape of if to memory. They built up a similar rhythm, sucking each other off with as much grace as the team had in the game - sloppy and a bit desperate, a bit all over the place, but somehow working. Somehow achieving the desired result. Eric’s jaw began to ache so he popped off and kept working Dele with his hand, looking down between their bodies to try and get a glimpse of his best friend with his cock in his mouth. 

“If you played footie with the enthusiasm you have for sucking dick we’d be Premier League champions too,” Eric said raspily, voice fucked out. “Shit, you’re good at that. Probably better than all them down the Red Light too, I’d wager. Making me feel well good,” he said, thrilled when Dele’s dick jumped in his hand. “Does praise get you off, Delboy? You like hearing that you’re making me so fucking horny right now?” 

Dele groaned and Eric felt the vibrations of it go all the way through him, his dick leaking a bit in Eric’s hand. “Are you close, Del? I’m so fucking close. You should come soon, you deserve it.” Eric sucked on the head of Dele’s dick for a second, popped back off noisily. “You played really, really good tonight. I was so fucking proud of you out there,” Eric said, softly, gently, all the joking aside. “You make it so good to be a Spurs fan,” he said, and Dele stilled, choking a bit, Eric’s dick falling out of his mouth as he came in thick spurts all over Eric’s neck and chest. “Fuck,” Eric gasped, staring in awe at the translucent liquid all over him. “Holy fuck.” 

Dele, bless him, didn’t even give himself time to recover before he was sucking Eric harder, faster, desperate. Eric lasted another minute or two and then he was coming with a bitten off moan, the orgasm extra sweet because Dele was fucking swallowing it, of course he was. Eric rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, as out of breath as if he’d played the full 90, sweat cooling on his chest. They lay there in silence for a while, both suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion, but they couldn’t stay like this all night. The come drying on Eric’s skin began to feel uncomfortable, and he slapped Dele’s thigh as he sat up, looking around the room with pursed lips. 

“Finalists, eh?” 

“Yeah,” Dele said, rolling onto his stomach and propping his cheek against his folded arms. “Finalists.” 

“It was amazing,” Eric said as he stood up, using his boxers to wipe at his neck and chest and stuffing them into the pocket of his joggers with a grimace. “All of it.” 

Dele blinked up at Eric slowly, on the verge of sleep. “Gonna pass the fuck out for a million years now,” he said, voice like treacle. “Don’t wake me up until the first of June.” 

Eric grinned at Dele as he pulled his shirt over his head, stuffing his feet back into his trainers. “Got it,” he said, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Dele’s forehead. “But I will need to wake you up to get you back to England. Can’t leave you in the dam, however much I want to.” 

Dele laughed against his arm, his eyes shutting drowsily. “Night, Diet.” 

“Night, Del.” 

Eric pulled the door of Dele’s room closed behind him and did a quiet fist pump, feeling pretty fucking on top of the world. It’d been the most perfect night - he couldn’t have imagined it any better. He smiled as he let himself into his room, allowing himself one night to picture just how good things would be if Spurs went and won the whole bloody thing.

**Author's Note:**

> [ tumblr ](https://sendinthehuskies.tumblr.com)


End file.
